Brothers
Sometimes, at night, my brother will tell me stories about his past life. He is only fifteen, and I’m two years younger, and we share the same bedroom. His voice changes when he’s telling the stories—an older, sadder voice. I know I should tell mama about this, but I like to hear his stories, so I keep my silence.
“The sky has been raining shells all week, and there seems to be no end to the damage that has been done to our village. Everywhere I turn, houses are burning and rice paddy fields are covered with splintered trees, upturned soil and small dead animals. Once, I saw a severed arm, lying in a bloody puddle of mud. It looked like a broken tree branch, with the white bone sticking out of the flesh, and I had to bury it deep in the ground.
The white demons have been hiding out in the forest behind the hills since last week, and Papa keeps looking in that direction, as if expecting these demons to emerge anytime. Every time a plane flies by, he’ll shoo us into the dug-out behind our hut and close the wooden lid above us and look sternly at us. We know better than to make any noise, as the whole earth shakes around us like it is being pushed around roughly.
Remember how Papa always asks me to keep my eyes on you because you are so restless? You are always asking for food, always hungry. I’ll give you my share, but still, you’ll ask for more.
Then one day, you run out of the dug-out while the earth is still shaking, and I have to chase after you. I can hear Papa screaming behind us, screaming for us to return.
You run towards the muddy path that leads out of the village, and I can see a row of men in uniforms walking towards us. I yell, but you can’t hear me. I pick up my pace. Someone shouts something, and the men dash into the nearest bushes, disappearing behind the wall of green. Then I hear a ripping sound tearing up the air, and I see you stumble back and fall.
I scramble to your side; you are moaning, like a new-born kitten. There is a hole in your right shoulder, and a wide-gaping wound on your back. Blood are free-flowing. Your eyes are slowly closing, like you want to sleep. I try to drag you into the dirt-canal but your body feels like a heavy sack of rice. Then the rippling sound pierces the air again.
I don’t know what to do, so I cover your body with mine, trying to put up a shield. But you have already stopped moving under me. You were so still, and quiet…”
My brother breaks down into sobs, and his words become muddled, distant. In the darkness of the bedroom, I breathe in his story, a phantom pain aching in my right shoulder.
O Thiam Chin’s short stories have appeared in Asia Literary Review, Quarterly Literary Review Singapore, Kyoto Journal, The Jakarta Post, Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, Karavan, Qarrtsiluni as well as in several literary anthologies. He is the author of two story collections, ‘Free-Falling Man’ and ‘Never Been Better,’ and his new collection of flash fiction will be published in 2010.
Sometimes, at night, my brother will tell me stories about his past life. He is only fifteen, and I’m two years younger, and we share the same bedroom. His voice changes when he’s telling the stories—an older, sadder voice. I know I should tell mama about this, but I like to hear his stories, so I keep my silence.
“The sky has been raining shells all week, and there seems to be no end to the damage that has been done to our village. Everywhere I turn, houses are burning and rice paddy fields are covered with splintered trees, upturned soil and small dead animals. Once, I saw a severed arm, lying in a bloody puddle of mud. It looked like a broken tree branch, with the white bone sticking out of the flesh, and I had to bury it deep in the ground.
The white demons have been hiding out in the forest behind the hills since last week, and Papa keeps looking in that direction, as if expecting these demons to emerge anytime. Every time a plane flies by, he’ll shoo us into the dug-out behind our hut and close the wooden lid above us and look sternly at us. We know better than to make any noise, as the whole earth shakes around us like it is being pushed around roughly.
Remember how Papa always asks me to keep my eyes on you because you are so restless? You are always asking for food, always hungry. I’ll give you my share, but still, you’ll ask for more.
Then one day, you run out of the dug-out while the earth is still shaking, and I have to chase after you. I can hear Papa screaming behind us, screaming for us to return.
You run towards the muddy path that leads out of the village, and I can see a row of men in uniforms walking towards us. I yell, but you can’t hear me. I pick up my pace. Someone shouts something, and the men dash into the nearest bushes, disappearing behind the wall of green. Then I hear a ripping sound tearing up the air, and I see you stumble back and fall.
I scramble to your side; you are moaning, like a new-born kitten. There is a hole in your right shoulder, and a wide-gaping wound on your back. Blood are free-flowing. Your eyes are slowly closing, like you want to sleep. I try to drag you into the dirt-canal but your body feels like a heavy sack of rice. Then the rippling sound pierces the air again.
I don’t know what to do, so I cover your body with mine, trying to put up a shield. But you have already stopped moving under me. You were so still, and quiet…”
My brother breaks down into sobs, and his words become muddled, distant. In the darkness of the bedroom, I breathe in his story, a phantom pain aching in my right shoulder.
O Thiam Chin’s short stories have appeared in Asia Literary Review, Quarterly Literary Review Singapore, Kyoto Journal, The Jakarta Post, Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, Karavan, Qarrtsiluni as well as in several literary anthologies. He is the author of two story collections, ‘Free-Falling Man’ and ‘Never Been Better,’ and his new collection of flash fiction will be published in 2010.
